Hannasofia Hardwick

Bio: Hannasofia Hardwick is an academic researcher. The author has contributed to research in topics: Narrative & Narrative history. The author has an hindex of 1, co-authored 1 publications receiving 16 citations.

The Narrative Role of Films in Four Contemporary Novels

Abstract: In my doctoral dissertation I explore the narrative function of cinema in twentyfirst century fiction. In this study literary representations of films are regarded as a narrative strategy through which literary texts accentuate, reflect, and give rise to their principal themes and questions. Since filmic insertions have a noticeable impact upon the narrative construction and hence turn out to be pivotal in the reader’s inferential process, I also investigate this narrative phenomenon in the context of reader’s meaning-making. I have chosen four novels for my study, namely The Book of Illusions (2002) by Paul Auster, Point Omega (2010) by Don DeLillo, The Understudy (2005) by David Nicholls, and The Ice Cream Man by Katri Lipson, published in Finnish in 2012 as Jäätelökauppias and translated into English in 2014. In these works the dominant meanings are closely linked to the representations of cinema, and films appear both at the discourse level and within the fictional world. Owing to the diversity of the chosen texts in terms of style and genre, my study provides a comprehensive view of the ways in which recent fiction has utilised “moving images” in narration. In this study I draw on the theoretical concepts of intersubjectivity, framing, mise en abyme, possible worlds theory, and indexicality in order to analyse the narrative function of films in the novels and the subsequent effects in the reader’s hermeneutic process. I demonstrate that the literary use of cinema greatly affects narration and the reading experience: it disturbs the conventional narrative hierarchy and the subordination between the primary level and the embedded one. Simultaneously, it violates ontological stability, which separates the fictional “real” from the filmic “unreal”. My case studies testify to the importance of the reader’s role as an active interpreter whose knowledge of and experiences with cinema contribute to the textual processing of the novels. By pointing out the intricate interaction between audiovisual and verbal sign systems in these texts, I show how the audiovisual upsurge in contemporary society has altered how we read literature.

Steps To An Ecology Of Mind Collected Essays In Anthropology Psychiatry Evolution And Epistemology

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Testimony Crises Of Witnessing In Literature Psychoanalysis And History

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Unnatural Voices: Extreme Narration in Modern and Contemporary Fiction

Abstract: Brian Richardson. Unnatural Voices: Extreme Narration in Modern and Contemporary Fiction. Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2006. 166 pp. $55.95 cloth; $24.95 paper. Brian Richardson's Unnatural Voices is a major contribution to narratology. Its starting point is the highly convincing thesis that 'narrative theory, despite its emphasis on narrative and narrators, has not yet systematically examined the impressive range of unusual postmodern and other avant garde strategies of narration', in part because postmodernism 'has often proven resistant to traditional narrative theory' (ix). He explains that the book is intended to rectify these unfortunate absences. It explores in depth one of the most significant aspects of late modernist, avant garde, and postmodern narrative - the creation, fragmentation, and reconstitution of narrative voices - and offers a theoretical account of these unusual and innovative strategies. This is an empirical study that describes and theorizes the actual practices of significant authors . . . Such an inductive approach is essential because many extreme forms of narration seem to have been invented precisely to transgress fundamental linguistic and rhetorical categories, (ix) In essence, the book comprises an inventory and theoretical overview of a large number of innovative contemporary uses of narrators and narration. These are contrasted with current theories of narrative poetics that, Richardson plausibly argues, cannot fully comprehend them. Such innovations include a new kind of narrative that hinges on the unexpected disclosure of a homodiegetic narrator towards the end of an apparently heterodiegetic text (for example, Ian McEwan's Atonement); 'it', 'they', and passive voice narration; second person narration (divided into standard, hypothetical, and autotelic); 'we' narration; multiperson narration (for example, texts that employ first and third person narration); indeterminate speakers; impossible acts of narration; interlocutor narration (for example, the 'Ithaca' episode in Ulysses); 'denarration' (narrators denying the truth of what they have just said); 'permeable' narration ('the uncanny and inexplicable intrusion of the voice of another within the narrator's consciousness' [95]); distinctively postmodern types of unreliable narrators such as fraudulent, contradictory, incommensurate, and disframed narrators; and unusual narrators in contemporary drama. And all in one hundred and forty pages! The final chapter, after discussing the modernist origins of contemporary anti-realist practices, ends with a plea for a general 'anti-poetics' of narrative that should be considered as a supplement and foil to traditional poetics. The proposal is not for a different poetics but for an additional one; that is, for an anti-mimetic poetics that supplements existing mimetic theories. Such a model will allow us to greatly expand the area covered by narrative theory, and will allow it to embrace a host of earlier non-mimetic literatures. And only in this way can we begin to do justice to the most effective imaginative achievements in narrative in our time. (138) Specifically, he suggests that 'we will be most effective as narrative theorists if we reject models that insist, based on categories derived from linguistics or natural narrative, on firm distinctions, binary oppositions, fixed hierarchies, or impermeable categories' (139). In Richardson's view, instead of such rigid typologies, we need an alternative model that stresses the permeability, instability, and playful mutability of the voices in non-mimetic fictions. Unnatural Voices is just what a narratological book should be: its proposals for narrative theory are original and important, and it also contains a number of illuminating readings of individual works. The book features an encyclopedic reference to a wide range of narratives from various countries, both postmodern and other (although the regular use of Samuel Beckett narratives provides a thread of continuity). …

'Ode on a Grecian Urn'における死と永遠

Abstract: do not play to the "sensual ear" and are in fact "of no tone." Filled with dualities—time and timelessness, silence and sound, the static and the eternal—the urn in the end is a riddle that has "teased" the speaker into believing that beauty is truth. In life, however, beauty is not necessarily truth, and the urn's message is one appropriate only in the rarefied, timeless world of art. Ode on a Grecian Urn: Text of the Poem Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, For ever panting, and forever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed? What little town by river or sea shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Ode on a Grecian Urn: Introduction 2 Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty,"—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. Ode on a Grecian Urn: John Keats Biography Born in 1795, Keats, the son of a stablekeeper, was raised in Moorfields, London, and attended the Clarke School in Enfield. The death of his mother in 1810 left Keats and his three younger siblings in the care of a guardian, Richard Abbey. Although Keats was apprenticed to an apothecary, he soon realized that writing was his true talent, and he decided to become a poet. Forced to hide his ambition from Abbey, who would not have sanctioned it, Keats instead entered Guy's and St. Thomas's Hospitals in London, becoming an apothecary in 1816 and continuing his studies to become a surgeon. When he reached the age of twenty-one, Keats was free of Abbey's jurisdiction. Supported by his small inheritance, he devoted himself to writing. Keats also began associating with artists and writers, among them Leigh Hunt, who published Keats's first poems in his journal, the Examiner. But within a few years the poet experienced the first symptoms of tuberculosis, the disease that had killed his mother and brother. He continued writing and reading the great works of literature. He also fell in love with Fanny Brawne, a neighbor's daughter, though his poor health and financial difficulties made marriage impossible. He published a final work, Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, and Other Poems, which included his famous odes and the unfinished narrative, Hyperion: A Fragment. Keats travelled to Italy in 1820 in an effort to improve his health but died in Rome the following year at the age of 26. Ode on a Grecian Urn: Summary Lines 1-4: The poem opens with three consecutive metaphors: the implied, rather than directly stated, comparisons between the urn the speaker is viewing and, respectively, a "bride of quietness," a "foster-child of silence and slow time," and a "Sylvan historian." Of these, the last is perhaps easiest for the reader to immediately comprehend. Ancient Grecian urns were commonly illustrated with scenes or subjects that varied depending on the era and style in which a given urn was created. While more ancient vessels featured paintings of war and heroic deeds, the one Keats had in mind probably came from the early free-style period. Urns of this era are characterized by scenes from religious and musical ceremonies similar to the ones described throughout "Ode on a Grecian Urn." Because of its subject matter, Keats's urn must date to before the fourth century B.C., yet the bucolic scenes it depicts have been preserved through the millennia. For this reason, the urn reveals to the viewer a "leaf-fring'd" bit of history: it is a "Sylvan historian." More puzzling to readers are the first two metaphors. Each involves the idea of "quietness" or "silence" because the urn relates its story in pictures rather than words. But why is it a "bride of quietness" and a "foster-child of silence and slow time"? The latter may be because while the urn's creation was the result of a fertile union between an ancient artist and some experience that informed his work, the same artist is now long-forgotten and the experience long-ended. Thus the urn, his "child," has fallen into the custody of the ages—"slow time." People who look at the urn can imagine but cannot actually hear the musical sounds and the story it depicts. Moreover, while in its own day the urn was used by people in their everyday lives, it has since become an artifact, perhaps in a museum, that viewers inspect reverentially—in "silence." The most cryptic meaning in these lines is of the word "still." Is it an adjective, suggesting the urn is "unmoving," or an adverb, meaning "not yet" deflowered or "ravished"? A dual intent seems to fit the poem best. While "unmoving" suggests the urn's static condition as an artifact, "not yet defiled" suggests that its Ode on a Grecian Urn: Text of the Poem 3 beauty, though still present after thousands of years, will one day be destroyed. This points directly to a major theme of the poem: the painful knowledge that all things must pass, including (and perhaps especially) beauty. Though the urn is ancient and might seem eternal, in fact it remains subject to decay and destruction—subject to time, even if, in the case of an antiquity, it seems to be "slow time." The urn's perishability is made apparent by a simple understanding: one of beauty's qualities is that it is rare. Though many urns were created, only few survive, and while this contributes to the speaker's conception that the urn is uncommon and therefore more striking, it is also evidence that even ancient relics are not immune to time. Lines 5-10: The poem's dualities are further expressed in the sestet. First, while the urn seems both unchanging and perishable, the questions its pictures raise suggest both the eternal and the mortal. Though the urn expresses "a flowery tale" (line 4), the tale itself is unclear in many ways. Observing the figures painted on the urn's surface, the speaker cannot tell whether they are "deities or mortals," whether they exist in Apollo's valley of Tempe or the heaven-like but mortally inhabited region of Arcady. The characters may be "men or gods"—they cannot be both—yet the speaker's repeated question demonstrates he is unsure in his interpretation. Further, though the urn is marked by its stillness and silence, the activities it depicts are filled with motion and sound: a "mad pursuit," "pipes and timbrels," "wild ecstasy." Though the speaker cannot hear the music, he can see the instruments; though he cannot see the motion, the still representations force him to imagine it. Thus the urn possesses a dual nature. On the one hand, it is itself a symbol of the static quality of art. On the other hand, however, its painted figures represent the dynamic process of life, which art distills in "slow time" and often in "silence." This is the puzzling nature of all art: its viewer responds to it both as a work, which seems eternal, and as an experience, which he knows to be fleeting. Though he pursues meaning the way the males in the painting pursue the females, the meaning is "loth" to yield itself. In such a way, the urn has a "teasing" nature that brings about more questions than answers, for if the answers were easily available then art itself would have little reason to exist. Lines 11-14: In the second stanza the speaker turns wholly to the sounds and activities depicted on the urn. Here he makes the distinction between ideal nature of art and the flawed, fleeting nature of life. Though he cannot physically hear the "melodies" the urn's characters play, "those unheard are sweeter" because they exist in the Platonic world of abstract forms. They are perfect precisely because they are unheard, because the "spirit" to which they appeal can grant them an imagined flawlessness impossible in songs perceived by the "sensual ear." If life forces imperfection on all things, art retains the ability to make—as Keats wrote in one of his letters—"all disagreeables evaporate." One such disagreeable is time. In life, where chronology is the rule, even the sweetest tunes must be brief. In art, however, the "soft pipes" can "play on" forever. Yet there is a paradox. What makes music both recognizable and beautiful is its tonal quality. The urn's musicians, however, play "ditties of no tone." While these songs may be ideal in their abstraction, they cannot possess the beauty of the